Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,81
script.”
I blink.
She continues frenetically, “If you say that our systems are down, it causes undue panic. Like if there is a bomb on the plane, the pilot does not tell the passengers that there is a bomb on board. He merely informs them that there is ‘a situation’. Same thing here! Our systems are NOT DOWN! And if you tell the callers that our systems are down, you will get a big fat zero on your quality scores!”
“Got it. The systems are unavailable,” I say to placate her.
She forges on, “And if the callers ask when our systems will be back up, let them know that we do not have an ETA.”
I smile and nod obediently.
Beep!
“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed. I’m so sorry but our systems are currently unavailable. Is there a general question I can help you with?”
“So your systems are down,” states the caller.
“Um, no sir. Our systems are unavailable.”
“Yeah, so they’re down,” insists the caller.
“No,” I protest. “They’re unavailable.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“It means our systems are not available.”
He makes an exasperated sound. “When will it be back up?”
“Sorry sir, we don’t have an ETA.”
“Now what does that mean?” he huffs.
“It’s an abbreviation for Estimated Time of Arrival.”
Sheesh. Now we’re supposed to talk like air traffic controllers.
Hmm, shouldn’t it be ETR? Estimated Time of Repair?
Click!
Aside from that snafu, it has been a rather swell day at work; and by the end of my shift, I’ve finished reading the entire novel.
Before logging off, I check my stats report.
Holy Sacred Indian Cow! My Average Handle Time for today is eight seconds! And that bumps up my overall handle time to two minutes!
“Truong!” I cry excitedly. “Have you checked your stats yet?”
“Sure have, darling. I love it when the server goes down; makes my stats look fab.”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Do you think they rigged it?”
Truong stares at me in blank astonishment. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I say in a hushed voice, “I think they planned this! They made the server crash on purpose to help improve our handle time.”
How sneaky! I am amazed by their shrewdness.
This is so surreal. And what a brilliant idea!
“It’s a conspiracy,” I hiss.
“Maddy,” he says mildly, “quit reading those silly Dan Brown novels.”
Twenty One
This week, Lightning Speed launched Security Questions, and all day long, I’ve been fielding calls from customers who either do not recall setting up their questions, or do not recall the answers to the questions that they themselves picked.
Go figure. I’m convinced that half the population suffers from acute Alzheimer’s and dementia.
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”
“My name is Rajeeswari Veerakukatanarasimharajuvaripeta and these Security Questions are so annoying. I don’t remember setting them up, and now I’m locked out of my account.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that Mister, um, Venkaqruisi, err...piqua,” I fumble, “but these are questions that you at one time chose and answered.”
“I said that I did NOT set them up!” he blasts. “I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE!”
“Sir, if you can answer one of your Security Questions over the phone, I can get you back online.”
“Go ahead!” he growls. “Ask me the damn question!”
“Okay. Where did you go on your first date?”
“I picked that question?” he spits haughtily.
“Yes sir, you did,” I inform him evenly.
“Shhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiit, I don’t know. My bedroom?”
I gag. Some date.
After typing in his answer, my app tells me it’s a no-go. “Sorry sir. That’s incorrect. Would you like to go to the next question?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, highly agitated at this point.
“Question number two: What is your dream occupation?”
Long pause.
“Bus driver?” he manages at last.
“Sorry sir, but that is the wrong answer. Would you like to go to the next question?”
“How can that be wrong?” he demands, huffing and puffing.
“Um, because that was not the answer you originally gave?” I say in a neutral tone.
“This is complete BULLSHIT! Next question!”
“Okay, question number three: What song did you dance to on your wedding night?”
“Which one? I’ve been married four times.”
“Sir, once again, you picked these questions. So you tell me.”
He scoffs with rage, “HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?”
I forge on, “All right, here is the last question: What was the model year of your first car?”
“Well I bought my car in 2008,” he says grumpily.
I rub my temples. “Sir, the model year refers to the year your car was built, not the year you bought it.”